This ain't goodbye
by drjohnhwatson
Summary: Sherlock goes missing and John doesnt know what to do, what to say. He is scared and worried and almost gives up. Almost. Until a text sends him running, running to the man he could never live without. Sherlock/John friendship./One shot.


Hi! Okay so I've been listening to Train and I couldnt help writing this. Sorry, i know i have mutiple stories on the go.

* * *

In the days that followed the pool incident, Sherlock went missing. John didn't know what to tell people, what to say or what to do with himself. He was bruised and battle-scarred and needed Sherlock. The dark haired man was a comfort, a hand on the shoulder that said "I know, John," but he wasn't there and John didn't know what to do.  
He'd sent him texts, tried to call him, sent Inspector Lestrade a strongly worded message of help, and even asked Mycroft for help, all to no avail.

He'd been so blind. They both had. Bold, but so, so blind.  
They were paying for it now, Sherlock in emotional turmoil and John in Sherlock's absence.  
They had underestimated Moriarty. John had anyway. He had thought him no match for his brilliant flatmate, but oh he was every bit as smart and infinitely more devious. Maybe that had been their downfall, John thought, and now Sherlock was gone and John didn't know if he was alive or...No. He wouldn't let the voice in his head say it.

On the third day that John woke up and Sherlock wasn't there, he got up, pulled on clothes, shrugged on his coat (the only one on the coat hook now, he realised with a pang) and walked out of the door. He travelled around nearly all of London, looked in every alley, every street, every park, anywhere and everywhere to try and find him. He made it back to Baker Street at 3am the next morning, none the wiser and definitely none the more settled. He was worried and cold and tired and went to bed without even a glance at the living room they had shared.

On the fourth day, he drank six cups of tea and went back to bed. His phone still had no new messages.

On the fifth day, John lay on the sofa with the TV flickering silently. The flat was quiet and unfamiliar without Sherlock. The more days that passed, the more John lost hope. They had lead such exciting lives, like stars shooting across the darkened sky, never stopping, never resting, becoming who they were meant to be, together. But now, all John could do was lie and wait until something dropped out of that sky that told him everything would be alright.

The text came in the early hours of the tenth morning.

**MESSAGE RECIEVED:UNKNOWN SENDER**  
**MESSAGE: **JOHN, 3691 GREAT PETER STREET. ATTEND URGENTLY.

That was all it said. It happened so unexpectedly and he was so surprised after being so lost that John didn't know what had happened to the 5 days that had passed without word. He jumped from his bed, heart pounding in a state of panic, half awake and still partly convinced he might be dreaming. He threw on clothes that didn't match, called round every taxi company in the vicinity of Baker Street that might be open until he found once, and then all but ran downstairs and out into the dark, quiet street. He paced outside the door, waiting impatiently for the car and breathing heavily.

When it arrived he'd practically ripped the door off of its hinges getting in, shouted the address at the tired, bemused and somewhat alarmed cabbie and then sat on the edge of his seat, eyes flickering as he stared out of the window.  
When the cabbie stopped, he threw cash at him (didn't quite know how much but didn't care either) and sprinted up the street. He rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks.

There was a body on the ground 700 yards in front of him, still, hair blowing in the breeze. His heart dropped into his stomach as he noticed the coat.  
"Don't be too late, don't be too late," he repeated like a mantra as he tripped and stumbled his way towards his flatmate, the world's only consulting detective and his closest friend.  
He threw himself to his knees beside the man's chest, his fingers scrabbling at the man's neck, searching, hoping,_ praying _for a pulse.  
He nearly passed out when he found one.  
"Sherlock! Oh, you're alive. Dear **God** Sherlock, you're alive," he gasped, his teeth chattering from the cold and his breath clouding around them in the air.  
He patted the man's cheeks gently, fighting back tears as he took in his chapped lips and his horribly pale skin.  
Sherlock's eyes flicked and opened slowly, heavily lidded.  
"John?" he croaked, almost a plea, desperate hope etched in his tone. He held up a hand with obvious difficulty, being so weak, but John understood that he wanted him to take it.  
"Yes, yes Sherlock, I'm here," he said earnestly, his voice cracking as he grabbed Sherlock's hand and held onto it tightly. "I won't go anywhere."  
There were sirens in the distance and John realised that the text had been from Mycroft; he was the only one who could know where Sherlock was (thank God for his surveillance cameras) and that he had reached him finally.  
"Sherlock help is coming, just hold on please."  
The younger man was silent but John had to keep him talking.  
"Sherlock why did you run away?"  
"Was...hurting," he rasped and John wished he had water to give him.  
"Hurting? You were hurt? Why didn't you say?"  
"Was...hurting you," he croaked again.  
"You thought you were hurting me?"  
"I put you...in danger." The detective swallowed painfully.  
"No! No it wasn't your fault! I was the one who wanted to come with you!"  
John wanted to cry at the injustice of it all and the tears threatened to spill from his eyes. Sherlock had gone so he wouldn't put John in danger anymore. Sherlock cared about him...  
"I wanted to come, Sherlock. I will always be with you**, always**."  
Sherlock cracked something like something that seemed like a smile and John almost moaned in relief. Instead he laughed.  
"Thank you, John..." Sherlock said. "For...saving me."  
"No problem, Sherlock. Don't mention it. Ever, "John said, and as the sun rose in the sky and lighted the ground beneath them, John knew that as long as they had time, this wasn't goodbye.

* * *

_"As far as we know, we were way before our time, as bold as we were blind._  
_This aint goodbye, this is just where love goes,when words arent warm enough to keep away the cold._  
_This aint goodbye, this is not where our story ends, but i know you cant be mine, not the way youve always been._  
_As long as weve got time, then this aint goodbye."_

**-Train: This Aint Goodbye.**


End file.
